


Two A.M. in Baker Street

by jessaverant



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Jealousy, M/M, Main Character Death, Poisoning, Possessive Behavior, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Sherlock being questionable, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two a.m. at Baker Street, and there's been a murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two A.M. in Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> This is a V-day exchange on Tumblr for missevalyn, and her request was simply "jealousy & possession". I certainly hope it's to her liking! Also, this had an accidental soundtrack of an 8tracks playlist I listened to on repeat: http://8tracks.com/librarian-esque/cinematic-beauty

It was, in a way, nearly inevitable. There was only one way it was ever going to truly, truly end.

The ink had barely dried on the divorce proceedings, and the boxes were still stacked underneath the windowsills where they’d been thrown in a fit of angry yelling two weeks prior. The front parlor railing had seven notches blown into it from the bottom up, where a trunk had shoved up against it in a flurry of activity. The words still echoed on the walls.

It was now two a.m. in Baker Street.

The flat was a hovel of it’s former self. The curtains were pulled past the sill, outside light reaching inside any way it could through the ragged edges. Books had fallen and remained where they lay, some of them trodden with dirt and mud. A pile of magazines had been partially torn to tiny, burning shreds. The sofa, the chairs, the tables, everything seemed to have been left to decay in a half-death state, and it turned Greg Lestrade’s stomach inside out when he arrived.

He wanted to do _anything else_ upon entering the flat that wasn’t heading to the bedroom. He was drawn towards the windows, the closest vestige to the outside, the only link to normalcy, carefully stepping around the fallen books. The bookshelf had entire book collections missing, the bare wood shorn open like a wound. The first detective to arrive on the scene was standing in the kitchen, taking stock of the instruments littered about. The muttering and the shuffling was about all Lestrade could handle.

“We’ve located the gun,” said a junior sergeant to the room. “The one the neighbors heard discharge.” Lestrade wondered if those words were meant for him.

“Bag it,” the detective ordered, taking a test tube with gloved hands.

“Detective Inspector,” a soft voice said from behind Lestrade, and he turned from where he had been standing at the bookshelf. She had wiry hair and sunken eyes but was sharp-witted, keen and worked surprisingly well with Lestrade’s top consultant. “I’ve been asked to escort you to the crime scene.”

_No, don’t call it that,_ Lestrade wanted to say. _Not here. The crime scene is never supposed to be here._

“They still don’t know the C.O.D.,” she continued as the pair walked through the room. “Sir,” she added, when Lestrade didn’t respond. He stopped at the doorway, the lights blaring from where they’d been set up within, a room he’d never really seen the inside of before.

The state of the bedroom was similar to the sitting room. Shades drawn past the sill, dust and dirt on each surface, and a bed of linens coating the floor. There were four tall, startlingly bright lights posted in the room, and photographs being taken from every angle. It was as if one of Lestrade’s nightmares were being played out in real time.

There had been a murder in Baker Street.

\--

_The tea had gone cold. The mug still stood on the side table, beside their bed, where John had placed it before sliding beneath the covers. He had coughed, loudly, before pulling the duvet up to his chin. Sherlock had offered him some of his cold medicine with his tea._

_Sherlock remained in the kitchen, his own mug of tea in his hand, still steeping. He had heard the rapid breathing as John slipped into sleep, but it had calmed now._

_Treading back into their bedroom, Sherlock observed that John’s pale cheeks were flushed bright red, running down his neck and beneath his pajamas. His breathing had dulled to a slight whisper between his lips, his forehead scrunched._

_Sherlock stepped out of the bedroom and headed into the living room, where he pulled one nail from the sill where the shades were attached, and pulled out a small black box with a damaged lock. The gun was already loaded, he knew._

\--

“John resigned from his GP position a month ago,” Anderson offered, his legs folded underneath him in the large leather chair. “It was odd, because he just sort of… stopped showing up, right after he and Mary split. And then he resigned via letter.” Lestrade leaned back in his chair, hands clasped together.

“Mycroft has been in touch,” he said as Anderson turned a page in his notebook.

“He has?”

“He said that he’d been trying to gather evidence to have Sherlock… ‘evaluated’,” Lestrade continued, placing his hands against his lips. “What that means precisely is uncertain, but he said he’d be on contact with ‘more information’.” Anderson’s mouth twisted, his eyes flitting down to the stack of papers all over Lestrade’s desk.

“Is… that it?” Anderson inquired, and Lestrade nodded, slowly and stiffly, as if he were in pain. “...May I?”

“What, do you get some sort of sick satisfaction from this?!” Lestrade snapped, and Anderson simply frowned, sitting up straight.

“ _No,_ ” he insisted, firming his lips into a straight line. “I _don’t,_ Lestrade, you know that. I want to know what happened as much as _anyone else,_ ” he said, placing his notebook on the floor. He stood and crossed to the desk, leaning over the detective inspector who just placed his face in his hands. “This was once my job, remember? Figuring out how people died…” Lestrade sighed, his nose whistling, and he pushed the folder towards Anderson with a grunt.

“Cyanide poisoning,” Lestrade explained. “They had both consumed lethal levels of cyanide. John had tea and cold medicine in his system, so it was probably slipped into one of those. Sherlock… only tea,” he finished quietly. Anderson read down the page of the report, his eyes trailing. The unlikely pair sat in a pregnant silence, Anderson absorbing all the information he could from the file, Lestrade simply reliving the sight of the previous night.

“At first it seemed like a homicide worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself,” Lestrade began, “but then we started inspecting the flat… it’s starting to seem more and more unlikely that this was an… _outside_ influence,” he said, his eyes flicking upwards at Anderson. “We’ve already apprehended a parade of likely people, starting, of course, with Mrs. Watson, but their alibis are airtight, even hers.” Lestrade closed his eyes once more.

“I’d still hold her, if I were you,” Anderson said off-handedly. He didn’t trust Mary Watson as far as he could throw _anything._

“If she killed them, she’s doing an excellent job of acting distraught,” Lestrade responded sharply. “This entire… entire case _,_ is just fraught with complications and _utter fuck-ups_.” The last words stung in Anderson’s ears, and he could hear the resentment and sadness on the edges. Lestrade was struggling, alone.

“I knew something seemed off when John resigned,” Anderson said, shaking his head. “This entire timeline of events from the split just seems to tumble down into absurdity.”

“Mycroft used an interesting word when he described his brother’s relationship with John,” Lestrade added.

“Oh?”

“He said that Sherlock was being… ‘petulant’.” Anderson bit his lower lip as he looked back down at the somber folder. “Something is--or rather, was--very wrong at Baker Street.”

\--

_It was half past one a.m., and Sherlock couldn’t decide which way he’d rather go._

_The gun was heavy and felt oddly uneven in his hands, even though he had handled it more times than he could count. The more he stared down at the instrument of destruction, the more he reconsidered using it. He wanted to be_ with _John, not in the other room. And if he got into bed and_ then _fired… well, John would be covered in blood, and Sherlock wouldn’t have that. Not anymore._

_John would never have blood on him again._

_Still, Sherlock felt compelled to shoot, regardless. There was just enough poison left in the bottle he’d brewed for this exact moment of indecision--poison or gun? Instantaneous death, or drawn-out?_

_The gun, he finalled decided, was too much. A touch too dramatic. He didn’t want to be the very picture of death, once they were found. He wanted to instill a sense of peace, and wonder, and a celebration of joyous, unending love--not a homicide._

_“Joyous, unending love,” Sherlock muttered, eyes fixed on the barrel, turning it slowly in his hands. They began to shake, with the enormity of his decision. Nothing mattered, apart from John. The state of his flat, which Mrs. Hudson would have been appalled by had she been allowed inside, was such a tiny, insignificant detail in the grand scheme of Sherlock Holmes’s Interests, that it was negligible. Their state of affairs, their finances, their own living spaces, completely forgotten. The only thing was John. John, John, John. John’s ending marriage. John’s ex-wife. John, now his._

_The gun started to appear appealing again. Twenty minutes to two._

\--

The funeral was sunny, bright and hot. It took all of Lestrade’s self-control not to get completely pissed beforehand, just so he could struggle through. The first “funeral” for Sherlock Holmes had been mostly private with few guests; but this time, the real thing, the final performance, had an attendance into the hundreds. It probably helped that it was a ceremony for two.

_In Memoriam: Dr. John H. Watson and Mr. W. Sherlock S. Holmes_

Lestrade stood at the back, already regretting wearing his best suit, which was designed for colder days. He felt stupid and guilty that he was sweating at a funeral, and sorely wished he _had_ gotten drunk before the ceremony began. Anderson was standing beside him, hands folded, eyes focused on the lanky figure making his way to the back of the group.

The ceremony was being held outside, in the cemetery, with a makeshift altar adorned with flowers and a tiny breeze that did nothing to offset the unusual heat. In his grief, Lestrade had made use of denial, and was half pretending he were somewhere else entirely, when Mycroft Holmes took hold of his elbow.

“I need to speak with you,” he said in hushed tones as the pastor spoke. Lestrade stared at him in disbelief.

“Now?” he hissed. Anderson glanced at the pair, then brought his eyes back to the front, ears open.

“Yes, now, before I become… preoccupied again,” Mycroft said, and Lestrade thought he heard a slight choke to his voice. "I assure you, we'll be done before the last speaker, considering that it's me." Lestrade glanced at Anderson, sighed, and allowed the elder Holmes to pull him away.

They walked towards the motorcade that had brought them all there from the funeral home, and Mycroft finally stopped before the first hearse. Lestrade was surprised to hear that Mycroft had anything to say at the funeral whatsoever, what with his aloof and stoic attitude.

"What is it? I'm trying to _pay my respects_ here," Lestrade demanded, ignoring Mycroft's frown.

"As am I," Mycroft responded. "Apologies for not contacting you sooner, I've been preoccupied with arrangements for days. As much as I'm sure you think I'm a cold and heartless man, my brother did--and still does-- mean very much to me. It was simply too much for our poor mother to make funeral arrangements herself, and since my father was busy consoling her, it fell to me. I had the feeling this kind of turn-out might occur, so I wanted to be sure that there was ample space." He turned and gestured to the block of parked cars along the cemetery gates, leading down the small road and out of sight.

“Ah, yes, well--” Lestrade began, feeling guilty once again. _Of course his brother was busy with arrangements. Of course, of course._ Mycroft cut him off with a raise of his hand.

“What I said to you before, about Sherlock’s evaluation--I’ve been monitoring him for sixteen months, since his _valiant return,_ ” Mycroft said, adding an unnecessary emphasis. Lestrade was overwhelmed with the desire to punch him. “He has displayed signs of a disturbing nature, surely you would have noticed them yourself? What he went through abroad did a number on him, and I did not notice before.” Lestrade bit his lower lip, running his fingers over his chin in thought.

“Well… I did notice something more unusual than normal with Sherlock the past few months,” Lestrade admitted. Mycroft straightened his back, his umbrella beneath lithe fingers, his buttons straining at his waist. He’d been neglecting his diet, and it showed.

“In the past few months, since John and Mary Watson split and he took up ‘temporary’ residence in Baker Street?” Mycroft asked. “And then never found anyplace else to live?”

“Well, I mean… I think the reason for that is a bit… _obvious,_ ” Lestrade admitted, and once _again,_ he felt foolish. It wasn’t exactly a _secret,_ the immediate relationship that developed between the pair when the divorce was in it’s early stages. He did _not_ want to talk about Sherlock Holmes’s sex life _with his brother._ At his _funeral._

“Regardless,” Mycroft said with a wave of his hand, “my brother only existed in extremes. There was no moderation with him. He set his sights on John and I’m afraid he became a bit too attached for his own good. From what I understand, towards the end, he wouldn’t let _anything_ come between them. Did you not notice how you saw John less and less?” Lestrade frowned. He didn’t like where this conversation was going, even if it _was_ where the evidence was pointing.

“The Metropolitan Police do have _excellent_ chemists,” Mycroft continued. Somewhere nearby, the croon of some old, fat bird came on a stifled breeze. “I know what you’ve found in the flat.”

“We have evidence that we haven’t completely processed,” Lestrade responded with a strain in his voice. Mycroft checked his pocket watch. “I do not make baseless accusations.”

“It’s getting close to my time,” he said, and he gazed back over to the funeral. “Sherlock had become very, er, _open_ with me towards the end, possibly because he knew I didn’t enjoy it,” Mycroft explained as he readjusted his waistcoat. “I do have some things that he wrote me, of course, which I will give to you after the ceremony. You probably will want some of it for your investigation.” With that, Mycroft nodded, turned, and walked back towards the procession, where the audience was giving a warm hand for Molly’s speech.

Lestrade remained by the motorcade, hands in his pockets, eyes closed. A stronger breeze picked up, and the sweat on his face dried.

\--

_John was surely dead by now. Sherlock, gun still in hand, retreated to the kitchen, where he poured the rest of the poison into his mug, took a deep breath, and threw his head back, downing the hot tea in two gulps._

_He retched as the roof of his mouth singed, and it was bitter, bitter, bitter, not at all how he’d want his last cup of tea to be. He only had a few minutes to get back to the bedroom before he fell where he stood. He put the cup down on the table, pushed the chairs out of the way, and stumbled into the hallway, his heart already pounding erratically. He glanced down at the gun, and was suddenly overcome with the thought that he didn’t want all the rounds to be left inside the chamber. He should unload it._

_Instead, he lifted his arm, and fired. Once, twice, three, four times, aiming into the pile of magazines at the foot of the sofa. Pieces of paper showered upwards in response. He fired the last few rounds, threw the gun against the wall, and wandered into his bedroom._

_John lay on his side, still and white, one hand curled up by his face. He looked the picture of peace._

_Sherlock fell into the bed, his brain buzzing, every breath becoming harder to take in. He didn’t even get under the duvet; instead he curled up next to John, squeezing his limp hand and pressing his nose and mouth against his forehead._

_“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to you. I’m so sorry I can’t protect you. I’m so sorry I can’t make your life better.” There was, of course, no response. The room was shrouded in darkness, and the door was partially closed, or Sherlock may have noticed the bright light against the window shades from their neighbor trying to figure out where the gunshots came from._

_“As long as you’re with me, here, you will never have the peace you desire,” Sherlock murmured. He felt like he was strapped down to the bed with impossible weights. “I’m sorry I’ve destroyed everything. But it’s okay, because there’s nothing left to hurt you now. Everyone is gone. Everything is gone. There’s nothing left to worry about. Mary can’t hurt you anymore. No one can hurt you anymore. I can’t hurt you anymore.”_

_It was ten minutes to two a.m. in Baker Street, and the police were on their way._

\--

“Murder…. murder-suicide.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“No one does.”

At that, Molly raised her eyes to meet Lestrade’s. She had seen the evidence; she knew. It had been one of her first suspicions, when the test tubes collected from the flat were tested. Mycroft was seated in the fat leather chair in Lestrade’s office, looking forlornly from Molly to Lestrade.

“And you knew?” Molly said to Mycroft, her arms shaking. Mycroft shook his head.

“Did I know my brother was mentally unstable? Yes. Did I know he would kill his lover and then himself? Of course not,” Mycroft responded. “My brother was so enthralled with John Watson that he became violently jealous of anyone else who spoke to him, and it was in the past month or so, when John had barely left the flat at all, that I first became suspicious of Sherlock’s activity. Although why John let him is another mystery altogether.” Molly looked from Mycroft, up above Lestrade’s head, as if looking for guidance from elsewhere.

“He was being… slowly poisoned,” Molly murmured. Mycroft turned to her. She closed her eyes and let out a shuddering sigh. “John’s hair. We tested it. We tested everything. He had been given very small doses of various poisonous substances over the past month or so. Just enough to keep him constantly ill. Bed-ridden. Ammonia and other trace chemicals.” The words were chopped and slow, as if each one hurt her mouth to say. “He never stood a chance.”

“It wasn’t out of malicious intent,” Mycroft assured them. “I’m fairly certain. He wanted John all to himself. He just took it as far as he could.” Lestrade swallowed and turned in his seat, looking at the framed photos along the lower edge of his bookshelf. A smiling John and a scowling Sherlock in tuxedos on a sunny spring day, what felt like two hundred thousand years ago.

“No, it never could have been,” Lestrade mumbled, more to himself than anyone.

\--

_“Detective Inspector, we need you.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“A homicide, sir,”_

_“Can’t Jones handle it? I have to be in Bristol in the morning--”_

_“It’s at Baker Street, sir. Two-two-one-bee Baker Street.”_

_“....”_

_“.... they’re dead, sir. I’m so sorry.”_

_Two minutes to two._


End file.
